Sand and Blood
by Lyrical Ballads
Summary: [repost] "You ever been shot, Beni? You ever feel a bullet rip through muscle and bone?"


_Disclaimer/Author's Note:_ If I'm remembering correctly, I'm pretty sure I wrote this after watching _The Deer Hunter._ So I don't own Rick, Beni, or the inspiration behind this story, I guess. (I did invent the two completely random Legionnaires, though.) This is an old story that I posted several years ago. I then took it down and tried to rewrite it as an original piece, but I felt like the rewrite completely fell short of the fanfic. And I hate for this story to go to waste, so I'm posting the fanfic version back up.

* * *

 **Sand and Blood**

He's been doing it all day.

Spinning the cylinder of his gun like a madman.

The Legionnaires don't need shiny American revolvers like the one clutched in Wilcox's hand. The Legionnaires can't _afford_ shiny American revolvers, but Wilcox carries one anyway. Just to prove he can. Bad enough that they all draw attention in their uniforms, perfectly identical in dusty, ill-fitting clothes. Bad enough that they're foreigners in the desert land of Egypt.

Now people in the bar are starting to stare as Wilcox spins his cylinder over and over.

And over. And over.

It's giving Beni a headache.

"You boys up for a game?" asks Wilcox, looking around the table.

The four of them sit in a circle, glasses of whiskey growing warm in the hot afternoon. Nobody likes Wilcox much, but Beni detests him. Has always detested him. Tough, bearded Wilcox, who thinks he's so great because he brought a revolver all the way from North Carolina.

Or South Carolina. It makes no difference to Beni.

They all look at Wilcox, weary from a long day of marching. Weary of sand and hot, never-ending sun.

O'Connell breaks the silence.

"What kind of game?"

"Little game of _roo-lett_ ," says Wilcox, laying his revolver on the table. "Saw some fellas play it in the war, winter of '17."

"What is the gun for?" asks Francois, the only Frenchman of their group. He won't stop fiddling with the end of his mustache.

Wilcox looks at Francois with a madman's eyes. Devil's eyes. "The gun is everything, Froggy. This here is a game of life or death."

Beni's heart starts to race. Americans are crazy.

"How do you play?" asks O'Connell. He looks calm, unruffled. Typical brave O'Connell.

"Why don't we find some whores instead?" Beni asks. His voice is shaking and higher than usual.

"You scared, Beni?" Wilcox taunts. "Scared of a little old bullet? Gonna cry home to your mama?"

"Lay off him," says O'Connell.

Wilcox continues, the insensitive bastard. "You ever been shot, Beni? You ever feel a bullet rip through muscle and bone?"

Beni shivers in his seat. He wants more whiskey. More liquor to drown out Wilcox's grating voice, too harsh to be a proper Southern drawl.

"Well? You ever been shot, boy? You ever see your friends and brothers die before your eyes?"

Francois twists the end of his mustache with nervous fingers. He laughs a feeble, nervous laugh. "Must we talk about this at the table? Why don't we—"

Wilcox raises the gun.

Francois falls silent.

"Easy there," O'Connell warns.

"You see some scary shit when you're in a war," says Wilcox. "Some of those boys who lay dying in the trenches had the fever so bad, they _begged_ us to finish 'em off. Saw one fella who was so sick and delirious that he took up his pistol, just like this."

Wilcox presses the gun to his temple. Beni flinches.

"He held it there for the longest time." Wilcox's eyes are crazy. His voice is hollow. "Just held it there with his eyes shut. Then his finger slipped and _bam_. That was it."

Wilcox puts his finger on the trigger. Breathes in and out.

"That was it."

"Wilcox, don't—"

He squeezes the trigger.

 _Click!_

Nothing. No blood, no gunshot. A hysterical little laugh finds its way out of Beni's throat.

"Oh, I get it now," he says. "You did not load the gun."

"You want to pull the trigger, then?"

No, Beni doesn't want to pull the trigger. He doesn't want to pull _any_ trigger. He wants to stop marching under the hot sun and see the great Hamunaptra. See hidden chambers filled to the top with gold and jewels.

"C'mon, Beni, pull the trigger. What have you got to lose? What have _any_ of us got to lose?"

Beni meets Wilcox's eyes. Then looks away. Those Devil's eyes scorch his very soul. "Hamunaptra. We have Hamunaptra to lose."

"There's no such thing as Hamunaptra," O'Connell mutters.

"There you have it," says Wilcox. "You ain't got nothing to lose."

But Beni believes in Hamunaptra. A man who has nothing—who has _always_ had nothing— _has_ to believe in Hamunaptra. "I will not play your stupid game, my friend." His voice is still shaking. His eyes have gone wide.

"What about you, Froggy?" says Wilcox, turning to Francois. "You got the balls to pull the trigger? Or are you a sissy-boy like Beni here?"

Francois's eyes dart back and forth, back and forth. He licks his dry lips. "It is not loaded, yes? No bullets?"

Wilcox smirks. The smirk of a man who's lost his soul. "You'll have to find out." He passes the revolver to Francois, sliding the cold metal across the table. "Go on. See if it's loaded."

Francois reaches for the gun. He wraps his fingers around the handle and slowly, slowly brings the barrel to his temple. Beni scoots his chair back, just in case.

"Well?" says Wilcox. "You gonna do it or what?

Francois sits there with the gun pressed to his temple. He sits there with a shaking hand, eyes fixed on Wilcox's bearded face.

"C'mon, Froggy ol' boy. Do it."

 _Do it. Do it._ The words sound like a death sentence.

Francois squeezes his eyes shut. He holds the gun to his temple for one, two, three seconds, his face as pale as a ghost. His hand shakes, points the gun at the ceiling, and pulls the trigger.

 _Click!_

Nothing.

" _Mon Dieu_ ," Francois gasps, one hand on his heart. He hurriedly crosses himself and murmurs a prayer, then slides the gun across the table.

Across the table toward O'Connell.

Beni knows O'Connell will pick it up. O'Connell is the kind of man who will _always_ pick it up, no matter what. The man acts like he was born with a gun in his hand.

"Well, Ricky," says Wilcox. "Looks like you're up next."

O'Connell stares at the gun, face unreadable. "Lucky me."

"You ever handle a revolver like this one? Cost a real pretty penny back home."

All eyes are on O'Connell as he picks up the gun and studies it from all angles. "Real nice." All eyes are on O'Connell as he looks into the barrel, as if hoping to find an answer down there.

" _Mon Dieu_ ," Francois whispers.

Wordless, emotionless, O'Connell puts the barrel to his temple and waits, mouth set in a thin line. Typical O'Connell. All balls and no brains.

O'Connell doesn't even tremble. Barely hesitates. He's all focus and grim determination as he takes a breath and pulls the—

 _Click!_

"You have got to be kidding me," says Beni. The situation is almost comical now. Wilcox has them caught in a sick joke.

"You think this is a laughing matter, Beni?" says Wilcox. He has eagle eyes. Eyes that see the amusement lurking in Beni's face. "You think this is some parlor trick?"

Beni wouldn't know. He's never been invited to anyone's parlor.

"I'll show you, Beni." Wilcox grabs the gun and puts it to his temple, every inch the madman. "You think it ain't loaded, Beni? You still think it ain't loaded?"

"Of course it is not loaded. It has been fired three times without a single shot."

"How much you want to bet it ain't loaded? Go on, place your bet."

"Maybe you should put the gun down, pal," says O'Connell. His calm has been disrupted. He grabs his beer glass with restless fingers.

Wilcox keeps the gun to his temple, deaf to all protests. "What about the rest of you? You think there's no bullet?"

"Doesn't matter," says O'Connell.

"Then it don't matter if I shoot. Is that right?"

"It is probably empty," says Beni.

Wilcox grins. His teeth are stained with tobacco juice. "Well if Beni here says it's empty, then it _must_ be empty."

He keeps the gun to his temple. Pulls the trigger.

 _BAM._

That was it.


End file.
